


ain't nobody fresher (than my motherfuckin' clique)

by interestinggin



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: M/M, confused!will, drunk!kit, naked!kit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 15:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7273327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interestinggin/pseuds/interestinggin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kit gave him a look that conveyed that not only did he not care in the slightest whether it was Stantford or Stratford, but he was in fact offended that Will thought he might, and was a little disturbed that Will did. </p>
<p>“You didn’t come here to be a monk,” he growled. “They liked you! We like you. Neither of those are likely to last; we’re fickler than a woman and the crowds are worse than we are. So <i>enjoy</i> it, William. God’s teeth.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	ain't nobody fresher (than my motherfuckin' clique)

_**Spring, 1593.** _

Kit sprawls across the narrow bed, arse up, naked as the day he was born, although Will has indicated that he personally suspects that Kit came out of his mother rubbing two coins together and demanding a pair of new boots. At any rate there is an insolence to the act. Where other men are simply sans garments, Kit is provocatively naked; Kit has made an art form of his aggressive, violent nudity.

He scratches at his side aimlessly, and rolls over onto his back like a dog.

He has trimmed - or someone has trimmed - the brown thatch of hair between his legs, rendering it short and tidy and a little unnerving. No-one does that, except a few whores still passing as children, and Kit - oh, Kit is many things, most of them rude, but Will is not sure if he has ever been a child. 

He laughs at some jest inside his own head and sucks capon grease from his fingers. They feasted last night, to celebrate Will’s newfound success, on a plump bird and a little bit of bread and bowls of pottage and far too much sack and wine. _O, monstrous - this bread to this intolerable amount of sack!_ Will had made some attempted murmuring at the time, about needing to save, money to be sent home - and Kit, unceremoniously, had poured wine on his protesting head.

“A comedy, _and_ it made people laugh, Shakespeare,” he'd said firmly, over the howled laughter of his compatriots and Will's apparent new best friends. “Now _that is_ worth celebrating.”

Will had made a rude gesture in his direction and attempted to wipe wine from his eyes. Kit pressed up against him a second later, using a handkerchief - Jonson’s handerkchief, he thought - to mop it up and wring the contents back into Will’s cup.

“And if you won’t buy your round like a civilised man,” he continued, grinning like a cat, “you can fuck back off to Stantford.”

“Stratford,” said Will distantly.

Kit gave him a look that conveyed that not only did he not care in the slightest whether it was Stantford or Stratford, but he was in fact offended that Will thought he might, and was a little disturbed that Will did. “You didn’t come here to be a monk,” he growled. “They liked you! _We_ like you. Neither of those are likely to last; we’re fickler than a woman and the crowds are worse than we are. So _enjoy it_ , William. God’s teeth.” With that, he’d thrust the cup back into Will’s hand.

Will looked down. There were fibres from the kerchief floating in it.

“It won’t kill you,” said Kit. “Not today, anyway.”

Will had shrugged, and drained the cup. It tasted faintly of the wood of the table.

“Cheer up, Shakespeare,” his new friend had said, clapping him on the back. “Your next one’s bound to flop, and then you can go back to obscurity and poverty in a field somewhere.”

“I begin to see why people dislike you, Marlowe,” said Will, into his cup.

“Ha! Not yet, you don’t," said Jonson, chuckling, and calling for another bottle of wine.

The room had begun to spin. Will held onto the table, and had found himself leaning against Kit, weary from the day's excitement. He smiled as his cup was refilled and gentle fingers brushed his hair from his cheek. "

"No," a low voice had murmured in his ear, "not yet. But my _dear_ boy,” Kit had whispered, with madness in his eyes, “you will _learn_.”


End file.
